


munit haec et altera vincit

by tavrincallas



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, Most of this fic will be T-Rated, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War II, also mentions of PTSD, but one where Hendo comes to help Adam look after his son after the war, this is another military au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tavrincallas/pseuds/tavrincallas
Summary: The slide from 'Lieutenant Lallana and Sergeant Henderson' to 'Adam and Jordan' is a slow, spiralling course of events.





	munit haec et altera vincit

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Latin for 'this one defends and the other one conquers'. In my head I would say that Hendo's the defender, while Adam's the conqueror. Thoughts?

“You fucked up, Studge.”

“I really wanted to tell you, Hendo _,_ but—,” Studge hesitates, before Jordan cuts him off in irritation. “But what?” Jordan asks. “You forgot?”

“It’s really not my place to tell,” Studge tries to defend himself. Jordan groans at the flimsy argument. “I mean, it’s the lieutenant’s prerogative. It’s his secret. I thought he would tell you eventually, given how _close_ you both were.”

Jordan refuses to even contemplate what Studge is trying to imply. Evidently, the lieutenant has conveniently kept him out of the loop, because Jordan has only found out about it today, when almost everyone else in the platoon has _known._

He hangs up the phone and rubs his eyes tiredly, before casting a long, hard glance at the baby in front of him. Jordan sighs heavily. “Why didn’t your dad tell me about you, little fella?” he says, before picking the baby up in his arms, sleepy and content, and places him in his designated crib.

After making sure that the baby is asleep, he makes his way to the living room and sees his Lieutenant sprawled on the sofa, like dead weight. The house is silent except for the lieutenant’s soft snores, and Jordan scratches his head.

Well.

 _Serves me right for showing up at the lieutenant’s doorstep uninvited,_ Jordan thinks.

 

* * *

 

After the war, Jordan doesn’t find much difficulty finding another job back at home, in Sunderland. The nation needs rebuilding, and as a result Jordan decides to work as a labourer – mixing cement for the new buildings that will shape Britain’s next generation. The job pays enough – and Jordan is thrifty with his money. So much so that he has enough to buy a cheap fourth-hand Vauxhall Light Six from an old man who’d wanted to get rid of the car, because it had belonged to his son who’d died in the war.

On a whim, Jordan has decided to contact the fellow surviving comrades who’d served with him, wondering if it’s okay to pay them a visit. Just last week he’s visited Studge, who has opened a restaurant – the business-minded man that he is, when Jordan has casually asked him about the lieutenant.

He should have understood that Studge’s disinclination to talk about the lieutenant was not because they hadn’t kept in touch. It was because Studge was hiding the lieutenant’s secret.

The last time Jordan has heard about the lieutenant, scuttlebutt was that he’d wedded a woman from another wealthy family; an arranged marriage. That was at least a year ago. So when he rung the lieutenant’s door this morning only to find him literally dazed and confused – as if he hadn’t slept for days, with a baby in his arms and no wife in sight, Jordan was speechless.

There wasn’t even a ring on the lieutenant’s finger.

_So what the fuck's happened?_

 

* * *

 

At 1437, the lieutenant rouses from his sleep, bleary-eyed and fuzzy. Jordan sits up straighter in his chair, folding the newspaper he’s been reading in half and drops it on the table. The lieutenant blinks at Jordan once, twice – as if disbelieving that Jordan is in his house, as if he’s an apparition. “Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’ve had a good rest,” Jordan says curtly. “The baby’s sleeping in his crib. He woke up earlier because he’d peed, but I’ve changed his diapers and tucked him back in,” Jordan explains warily.

It seems as though the lieutenant doesn’t even remember that Jordan was in his house, much alone handing the baby to Jordan so he could go to sleep. The lieutenant’s last words to him before he collapsed on the couch were exactly this: “I haven’t slept in two days. I’m glad you’re here, Sergeant – would you be able to keep watch on him,” he’d said, indicating to the baby, “—while I get some shut-eye?”

Jordan has thanked providence that he’s got nephews and second cousins twice removed who were young enough to be his own children, so at least he had _some_ experience in handling toddlers. _‘Some’_ being the operative word— Jordan did blink for several seconds and looked blankly at the baby, who was being far too cheerful with a stranger at this time of day. Jordan tries to be helpful though, and helpful is what he’s doing now— for his lieutenant. He feels awkward enough, because a) the lieutenant hasn’t spoken a word since he woke up, and b) Jordan still has no idea what the baby’s name is.

The lieutenant is yawning, now, before his stomach makes a grumbling noise. “You’re really here, Sergeant Henderson,” he says, finally. “I thought it was a dream.”

Jordan raises an eyebrow.

“Well, sir. I’m as real as the funny noises your stomach is making,” Jordan retorts. “I’ll fix you some lunch. I’ll have to warn you of my non-existent culinary skills though,” he says, as he stands up to head to the kitchen.  The lieutenant merely stares at him, glassy-eyed, before following him through. Jordan searches for ingredients in the lieutenant’s cabinet and decides to make a quick meal, as he gathers his stuff. Bread and baked beans. Lots and lots of canned soup.

Nothing could ever go wrong with baked beans and canned soup.

“His name is Arthur,” the lieutenant blurts out of the blue.

Jordan continues to twirl his wooden spoon inside the pot while waiting for the soup to heat. “It’s a good name,” he remarks casually.

The conversation ends abruptly, just like that. It is only when Jordan lifts the steaming metal pot to serve at the dinner table that the lieutenant attacks him with the million dollar question.

“Why are you here, Sergeant?”

Jordan grits his teeth. He continues serving the soup in their bowls like he hasn’t heard the question, but he’s aware that the lieutenant is watching him curiously. “I just wanted to say hello. I didn’t expect to barge in uninvited, and if I’d _known_ I would’ve—,” he trails off, before his shoulders fall into a defeated posture.

“Would’ve stayed away? Backed off?” the lieutenant offers to finish Jordan’s sentence, sounding hurt in the process.

“It’s your prerogative, sir. To let me into your personal life or not,” Jordan retracts one step and starts again. “If I’d known I would have brought little Arthur a present,” he says, lips curving into a soft smile. Tries to sooth the lieutenant’s wounds a little.

“Sorry,” the lieutenant says, then. Still without maintaining eye-contact, his gaze fallen upon his lap. “I should’ve told you.”

“I know now,” Jordan softly replies. “Doesn’t really matter. I’m here anyway.”

They finish their lunch quietly. Jordan helps to wash the dishes as the lieutenant stays at the table, gulping down cold water. “Thanks for your help. You must want to get back to Sunderland soon. It’s a long drive here, isn’t it?” he says.

Something inside Jordan snaps. “What makes you think that I’m leaving so soon,” he asks sharply, before remembering his manners and adds a softer “— _sir?_ ” –almost like an afterthought.

The lieutenant looks at him blankly, dark circles around his eyes making him appear as if he’s decaying from inside. Jordan knows the answer without the lieutenant having to say it.

_Because the rest of them always do._

Other friends who have visited the lieutenant must have been uncomfortable; must have been afraid of the changes they’ve witnessed. The lieutenant is becoming more of a zombie than a functioning human being, in the post-war world. A soulless shell. Instead of offering sincere help they have decided to distance themselves, all while saying that they _care_. He gradually begins to understand why the lieutenant hasn’t reached out for him for help – even if that has always been the most natural thing for the lieutenant to do during the war; in the heat of battle. Jordan had always been next to the lieutenant for advice and support, even when Command made them execute idiotic orders that could have cost them their lives.

The lieutenant didn’t tell him about _this,_ because he’d been afraid that Jordan would notice the change. Feared that Jordan would shun him like everyone else did.

Arthur begins to cry again in his crib; sharp shrills interrupting Jordan’s reverie. The lieutenant reacts quicker than Jordan and goes to hush the baby, cradling the tiny bundle in his arms and croons him with sweet lullabies.

It’s such a fucking bizarre scene, until Jordan realizes that he still hasn’t asked the lieutenant about his wife.

 

* * *

 

When Jordan was first introduced to the lieutenant, he’d been so sure that he’d be damned for life. One look at the lieutenant and the words ‘incompetent’ and ‘boot’ comes to mind, because he’d looked so young, wide-eyed and idealistic. He’d looked like he’d just graduated high school, so Jordan was shocked when he found out that the lieutenant was at least a few years older than him. The first week his platoon geared up together to fight the Gerrys, Jordan realized that _incompetent_ and _boot_ were the last words he could ever use to describe the lieutenant.

The lieutenant was far from the best officers Jordan had worked with, but he was heading that way. He may only be Jordan’s inexperienced Platoon Commander, but Jordan trusted him more than he trusted his reckless Company Commander – a Captain who’d served in the Airborne for three years but only as a fucking logistics officer prior to entering the war. Four months into the war and Jordan believed that if the Gerrys didn’t kill them, Command will – if the Generals and Colonels kept sending them into missions without proper equipment that actually work, without credible intel, without jeopardising the lives of civilians. It became a recurring theme for the whole year, amongst the paratroopers – that the higher-ups never seemed to learn from their previous mistakes. It got so bad that Studge once joked, “You know what will happen when you leave the army, Sergeant?”

Jordan had narrowed his eyes guardedly.

“You get your brains back,” Studge continued. “I’m glad that the lieutenant still has his brains, though,” he quipped offhandedly. “He’s the only officer that could think straight in this hellhole.”

Jordan had kept his personal feelings to himself at that time. After VE Day, he gradually learned to accept that he was still alive mostly because of the lieutenant.

 

* * *

 

“She left me because she wanted me to get help,” the lieutenant explains. “I was proud. I thought I was invincible. I thought I was strong.”

“Getting help isn’t a sign of weakness, sir.”

 _You should know that more than anyone else,_ Jordan wants to add, but he bites his tongue.

“My situational awareness doesn’t extend very far when it comes to the war at home, Sergeant. I guess I must’ve left my brains in my helmet somewhere in Holland.”

There was meant to be a joke in there somewhere, but Jordan doesn’t laugh. He recognizes a breakdown when he sees one. Even the best of soldiers aren’t immune to psychological trauma, and it’s a miracle that the lieutenant held on for as long as he did. He’d shown no signs of cracking in war-theatre, but the humdrum of peace and quiet broke the illusion. There are remnants of his old lieutenant in this hollow shell of a man in front of Jordan, and he wishes he could help find the missing pieces to make the lieutenant whole again.

“So where is she now?”

“She moved to the States with her new husband— he’s a Yank. That was three months ago. Her parents didn’t want her to stay married to someone like me,” the lieutenant drops his head into his hands and sighs. “She’d stayed throughout the pregnancy, because we wanted to make it work. But the arguments escalated, got out of hand.”

“And Arthur? How come you’re looking after him on your own?”

The lieutenant lets out a bitter laugh. “You could say that my dad half-disowns me. Doesn’t believe that his precious son could stoop so low; could destroy the family’s honour by breaking up a marriage over some recurring nightmares,” he spits. “He doesn’t want me back at the family home, afraid that my illness is contagious. “Mum comes to visit every morning to check if Arthur and I are okay, though. Mum hired a maid to help with the chores, but she’d left too. I think she was scared of me.”

_What the hell did you do to make them fear you so much?_

 

* * *

 

That night, they decide on a fifty-percent watch, taking turns looking after Arthur whenever he wakes up for a feed or diaper change. Jordan is used to this— to sleeping at forty minutes at a time and get interrupted by enemy shelling or random mortar fire; or staying up for thirty eight hours without rest because they need to push ahead into enemy lines. The difference is that he doesn’t have to dig foxholes to sleep in, he has a roof above his head, and the lieutenant is sleeping next to Jordan on what he is acutely aware of as the lieutenant’s marriage bed.

The lieutenant had asked Jordan to share his bed for convenience, because Arthur’s crib is just opposite where they sleep. It has been twenty minutes since Arthur last woke up, and Jordan had changed his diapers before tucking him back into his crib. Jordan is finding difficulty to return to sleep, and in the silent darkness he watches the lieutenant instead.

He’s crouched in a foetal position; knees to chest – arms positioned as if he’s holding something against his chest – a rifle, Jordan realizes, only that there is no rifle.

And then, the grouches start.

 

* * *

 

Jordan remembers the turmoil of warfare. It’s become part of him; formative in the way discipline is drilled into him and a saving grace when it keeps his cool under pressure. But the war is fucked up, because his enemy could have been his brother; his friend. And the lieutenant, ever-the-idealist, had marched into the calamity expecting that it would eventually turn out _alright._ That the powers that be would come to their senses and stop fighting for whatever reason they had fought for in the first place. That Command would stop sending troops into suicide missions. They were the best soldiers in the army, the paratroopers – if not crazy. Who in their right minds would jump out of a perfectly good airplane? When the war didn’t seem to end, Jordan noticed how the lieutenant became unsure of himself, doubting his own leadership. He could have laughed at that, because nobody in the Platoon would ever doubt the lieutenant’s leadership. It was Command, it was the Captain who would screw them up. The lieutenant was just trying to look out for his men. When the lieutenant shouted out of frustration at the Captain for his foolishness and incompetence, trying to save the company from being wrongly sent behind enemy lines because the Captain fucking read the map wrong, the lieutenant was threatened with court-martial.

The other NCOs went up to the lieutenant that night, when he was on watch with Gunny Milly. They tried to tell him that whatever accusations the Captain tried to lay on the lieutenant, they’d support him. The lieutenant had barked at them, telling them to mind their own business. Jordan hadn’t been there, but he’d heard the stories from Studge, that the lieutenant told them to keep their _personal feelings_ to themselves.

It was in the middle of an ambush that Jordan finally, if ever, told the lieutenant about his own personal feelings – even if it was only a miniscule amount. They were strong-pointing a Belgian town held by the Gerrys, outnumbered by a scale of 5 to 1, and the lieutenant’s face was grim. “Sir, the scuttlebutt I’m hearing is that you may be relieved of command,” Jordan broached the subject carefully. Bullets fired all around them like raindrops and fireworks, but they were crouched behind a tank and for the time being, they were safe.

The lieutenant’s mouth twisted miserably. “There could be an investigation,” he said. Fingers clutched around the handle of his rifle, knuckles turning white.

“For trying to save the company when the Captain was trying to fuck us all up? _Wonderful,_ ” Jordan spat. The lieutenant was going to make another weak comment about ‘personal feelings’ when Jordan charged on mercilessly. “Sir, your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in.”

He could see a flicker of surprise in the lieutenant’s eyes – because he was Jordan Henderson. He’d never utter lines like those if he could hold his tongue. But he just did, and there was an odd ache in his chest when he witnessed the downturned lines of the lieutenant’s lips curving up slightly.

But they were in the middle of a battlefield. There was no time to dwell on that.

 

* * *

 

The lieutenant wakes up at 0500 and takes a shower. Arthur is still sleeping soundly in his crib, while Jordan pretends to stay asleep. He rouses fifteen minutes later when he smells coffee emanating from the kitchen; steps in quietly to see the lieutenant already serving breakfast for two at the table. “Do you remember when the platoon nearly went down when Trent’s coffee pot exploded inside our tent? And Studge nearly missed the war because the pot exploded in his face?””

The smile on the lieutenant’s face is reassuring. “You have me to thank for that, Sergeant. If I hadn’t amended the report to say that the pot exploded outside the tent—,” he begins, when Jordan cuts him off. “Yes, yes. The whole platoon would have been screwed for operating a non-reg equipment inside the fucking tent. The incident certainly improved Corporal Sturridge’s physical features, though.”

“I hear he’s quite a big deal with the ladies, now that he has the burn scars.”

“Keep telling ‘em ladies he got them in the war,” Jordan quips.

The lieutenant shrugs. “Studge could say whatever he wants to say.”

 _You could have too_ , Jordan wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he remembers the awful screams the lieutenant made in his sleep last night, when he presumably had more of the nightmares. He could have woken the lieutenant up, but he didn’t. He doesn’t know how to bring it up without upsetting the lieutenant. He doesn’t know how to do it without upsetting himself, because he knows the people lieutenant has cried out for.

 _Knew_ the people.

Those people are dead, now. Nameless war casualties that won’t be remembered in history textbooks, but make enough numbers for statistics.

 

* * *

 

Jordan is bottlefeeding Arthur when the doorbell rings at 0806. The lieutenant immediately lets out a soft, “Fuck,” causing Jordan to frown and asks, “What’s the matter?”

“I forgot to tell my mother that you’re here. She’s come to do her daily checks on me,” he mutters apprehensively.

Mrs Lallana appears to be a respectable lady in her late 40s, well-dressed in every sense of the word, a no-nonsense kind of matriarch that you don’t ever to want to mess with – but with a soft inner-core that melts at the sight of the lieutenant and her grandson. Jordan slips into the doorway with Arthur in his arms, standing behind the lieutenant awkwardly, waiting to be introduced like an anomaly that has fallen ungracefully into the lieutenant’s life.

Her smile falters momentarily when she discovers the tall stranger in her son’s home, affectionately holding her grandson.

“Mum, I forgot to tell you that Sergeant Henderson came to visit,” the lieutenant says carefully, all formal and business-like. “He served with me during the war.”

Served _with_ me, the lieutenant has said. Not _under_.

The lieutenant could have pulled rank, but he didn’t.

Jordan takes the cue and passes Arthur to the lieutenant. “Jordan Henderson,” he introduces himself. “An honour to meet you, Ma’am,” he says before courteously bowing to the lieutenant’s mother. The slight concern and hesitation in Mrs Lallana’s gestures immediately disappears. “No wonder Adam talks so much about you,” she says, and Jordan takes a sharp breath, letting the implications of the statement slide. He looks to his right, at the lieutenant, but his features remain impassive. “I’ve met Corporal Sturridge and Sergeant Milner several times,” she explains. “But Adam talks about you the most and yet you never visit,” she continues with a warm smile on her lips.

“I’m here now though, Ma’am,” Jordan says with the most charming smile he could muster. Never mind that the lieutenant forgot to tell him about Arthur. He’s here now, and he’s staying.

“How long are you staying here for?”

“A week, at least,” Jordan replies without hesitation. He notices the lieutenant’s surprise, and maybe a tad of disapproval, because they haven’t definitively discussed the length of Jordan’s stay. “Corporal Sturridge has been telling me stories about how cute little baby Arthur is, and I don’t want to miss out. I’ve been busy, so I haven’t had the time to pay him a visit before. Now I have some time off, so I’d like to help out,” Jordan lies through his teeth easily. He’s not sure if Mrs Lallana has caught him out or not, and he could sense a little bit of doubt in the way she looks at him as he speaks, but the lieutenant decides to back him up.

“Yes, mother. I’ve never had an 8 hour nap in the last fortnight, and I’m glad that Sergeant Henderson is here to lend a hand,” he offers. “Best sleep I’ve had in weeks,” he continues.

Jordan grits his teeth. He remembers the lieutenant grouching in his sleep only a few hours ago; crying in agony because he couldn’t save his men.

 _Best sleep I’ve had in weeks,_ the lieutenant says. Jordan rolls his eyes.

Mrs Lallana leaves after she is satisfied that Jordan would keep an eye on her son and Arthur. “Just be careful when you change the diapers,” she has warned. “He couldn’t shoot straight, which is pretty much what Adam was like when he was a toddler. God knows how he ended up being a lieutenant in the Airborne.” The lieutenant’s pale cheeks are coloured crimson at the comment.

“Don’t worry, Ma’am. I’ve changed Arthur’s diapers enough times to appreciate your concerns,” Jordan has replied light-heartedly.

“She likes you,” the lieutenant says after the door clicks shut, leaving the lieutenant in command of the household once again. “For a moment I was worried that she might not like you, because she even asked Studge about you when he came to visit. She thought I was making up a man that doesn’t exist.”

“Why would she think that?” Jordan asks in confusion.

The lieutenant’s smile is sardonic. “Because I told her that the reason why I’m still alive is probably 96% down to you, Sergeant. And I still think it’s true.”

Jordan’s nostrils flare; eyes widened – but he doesn’t have any witty comebacks in riposte. 

“Studge has offered to help out with Arthur,” the lieutenant drones on, as if he didn’t just drop a ton of ordnance on Jordan’s head with his previous words, “—a long time before you turned up.”

“So why didn’t you let him?” Jordan manages to ask, his voice croaky.

“I felt like he was doing it out of pity. And he was in the middle of building his own business empire. I couldn’t let him destroy his future for the sake of my own.”

“For a moment there, sir, I thought you were afraid that Arthur would end up having Studge’s colourful vocab if they spend enough time together.”

The lieutenant snorts, before breaking into a sharp grin. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t want that either. With no disrespect to Corporal Sturridge.”

Jordan smiles a little. It’s the first time he reads the lieutenant’s expression as genuinely amused since he arrived. “I’m sure he’ll understand,” he says.

 

* * *

 

That night the lieutenant tells him that Arthur is due for his health check-up in three days at the infant clinic.

“You could have asked your dad to do it for you,” Jordan quips. “He’s a general practitioner, isn’t he?”

The lieutenant scrunches his nose in disgust. “In case you’ve missed the sitrep, we’re not on good terms at the moment, Hendo.”

“What happened, sir? You told me so many great things about your family. About your father. About how you might finish med school and follow in his footsteps as a doctor, work at his practice.”

The look in the lieutenant’s eyes is vicious. “War happened, Hendo,” he spits, words stinging like venom. “Turned me into a different man, someone he couldn’t accept. At this rate I don’t think I’d be able to finish med school. I’d be lucky if I could hold a job at all.”

Jordan swallows uncomfortably.

“We had a giant fight. He was disappointed in me, I went out of line and struck him in the face, and he threw me out. Simple as that. Worst thing is I couldn’t even remember that I’d done it. I was so angry and I blacked out and the next thing I knew I had four people trying to hold me down. That was before I had my divorce, though.”

The lieutenant is opening up, and all Jordan could do is stare at him in horror.

“I know what you’re going to say. How is Arthur still safe with me? I’ve been behaving myself. I’ve locked myself in here, so that I don’t meet people that trigger my emotions into something toxic—,” the lieutenant confesses, “—and that is also why Mum has been visiting me every day. To make sure that I’m still alive. That Arthur’s still alive.”

Jordan attempts to compose himself. He feels like he’s in a warzone again, dealing with a different, more delicate enemy. Despair. “When was the last time you went out of the house, sir?”

“I can’t remember.”

_This is fucking ridiculous._

“What about this baby check, then? Do you intend to go, sir?”

The lieutenant shakes his head and lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, without even looking at Jordan’s face – shame and guilt rolling into one, perhaps, “—because I’ll need you to help me face my fears. Keep me in line. Do what it takes to keep me in check.”

“You _can_ do it,” Jordan insists. “For Arthur. I mean, it’ll take time. But—,” he pauses, “—I have a week and a half. If you feel slightly better by one week, then I consider that a success.”

 

* * *

 

The main objective of this operation consists of getting the lieutenant out of the house, facing social anxieties— before Jordan quickly retracts his thoughts. It isn’t people that the lieutenant is scared of. He isn’t afraid of people talking behind his back, afraid of people thinking he’s crazy. They got it all wrong. He’s scared that he’s not able to protect these people on the streets, like the civilians he couldn’t save when the war was still on. He’s scared that some random mortar fire will land in the middle of the street, and hundreds of people will perish. He’s not paranoid – Jordan knows this, even in peacetime. Because the threat was – and is _still_ real.

Britain is at peace, but there is still Russia and the threat that the Soviets pose. Peace with Germany doesn’t promise that World War Three won’t happen. They could plunge back into war and the lieutenant is scared that he won’t be able to save these innocent souls.

To save Arthur.

Jordan walks behind the lieutenant as he pushes Arthur’s stroller down the streets, watching his six. He watches the lieutenant’s gaze flicker right, watching his sector, guarding it. They make a right turn, down to the market place, where already they could hear the hustle and bustle of people haggling for cheaper beef prices, arguing why the prices of the vegetables are still so high when they aren’t fresh.

“I can’t—,” the lieutenant pauses in his steps abruptly, causing Jordan to bump into his back. Their hands briefly touch, before Jordan pulls away. “It’s too open and crowded. We wouldn’t be able to pull back in time—,” he says, _if we get attacked,_ Jordan finishes the thought in his mind.

“I’ve got your six, sir,” he reassures the lieutenant. _Trust me_ are the words he didn’t say, but the lieutenant’s eyes seem to be telling him, “I trust you,” anyway.

They walk slowly into the market, buying groceries and food stock for the next week. Since Jordan has been living with him, the lieutenant has prohibited his mum from coming over—and as a result, their food supply begins to run low. Jordan studies the lieutenant intently, watching for any signs of breakdown – apart from the beads of sweat that have begun to emerge on the lieutenant’s forehead, and his increased breathing, the lieutenant is holding on.

“We’ve got to buy some fish,” Jordan reminds the lieutenant, whispering in his ears, a slight touch on the lieutenant’s wrist. His pulse is strong, regular, and running rapidly as if he’s just finished a 100 metre run. “You’ve done really well, sir. Just a bit more, and we’ll head out of here ASAP.”

Jordan’s soothing voice seems to calm the lieutenant down.

It’s all going well after they’ve managed to buy some fish and exited the market, when they hear a sudden, sharp shrill noise— and Jordan doesn’t know what happened, one moment he was standing and chatting with the lieutenant as he pushes the stroller. The next minute he was pushed roughly against a large tyre of a lorry, the lieutenant crouched in front of him, faces inches apart, his hand in Jordan’s collar. The lieutenant’s eyes are raving, wide, panicked. Jordan looks to his three and sees Arthur in his stroller, safely tucked in his blankets, unaware of any danger. “We’re safe here, Sergeant,” the lieutenant whispers harshly, his breath tickling Jordan’s skin.

They’re crouched behind a lorry by the street, and the lieutenant is having one of his war flashbacks. The lieutenant’s other hand is gripping Jordan’s shoulder tight; so tight that it hurts, but Jordan doesn’t mind. “Behind this tyre, they can’t shoot at us,” the lieutenant reiterates. “I’ve got you,” he tells Jordan.

It must have been a car that sped and skidded down the road, causing that horrible, high-pitched shrill that brought the lieutenant back to wartime Europe. The car is long out of their sight. No other vehicles are passing down the road, now. The lieutenant’s breathing slows down, before he realizes his mistake. His expression turns grotesque when reality sinks in, his hands still gripping at Jordan’s clothes for purchase, his eyes welling up into tears. “I need help,” he says breathlessly, lips quivering.

“I’ve got _you_ , sir,” Jordan echoes gently, bringing the lieutenant back up on his feet.

 

* * *

 

The phone rings just as the lieutenant goes for a shower after they return from the market.

“Hullo?” Jordan offers tentatively into the receiver, only to be blitzed by Studge’s overexcited voice from the end of the line. “ _Hendo!_ You’re still at the lieutenant’s house? You didn’t tell me you were going to stay this long?”

Jordan lets out a resigned groan. “How did you even know it was me, you dumb fucknut?”

“Who else answers the phone like they’re at a funeral?”

Jordan is about to offer a retort when Studge presses on. “How’s the lieutenant?”

 _Crumbling into pieces,_ Jordan thinks, but instead he opts for a diplomatic, “He’s on the road for recovery. He recognizes that he’s unwell, and we’re going to get help. Somehow.”

Studge harrumphs. “And how’s my little bundle of joy Arthur? Tell him his dearest Uncle Studge says hello. And ooooh! That rhymes!”

Jordan’s gaze flickers towards Arthur who is trying to bat at the colourful toys hanging above his crib, and he smiles wryly. “Arthur’s definitely looking better than his dad. But I’m working on it, Studge.”

“Trust Sergeant Hendo to make our lieutenant better,” Studge replies in a more solemn tone. “Somehow I knew it’d be you. He never lets anyone else in, Hendo. Not even his Mum.”

Jordan remembers Mrs Lallana, elegant in her blue dress and perfectly styled hair and red nails – every inch the perfect mother, slowly disintegrating underneath the glossy surface due to her worries about her son. The resounding faith that reignited in her eyes when Jordan stood next to the lieutenant.

“Did you call just to check up on me, or do you want to speak to the lieutenant? Because he’s in the shower right now,” Jordan changes the subject to avoid discomfort.

“I’ll call later, Hendo. I just wanted to say that I might drop by this weekend, that’s all. Would you ask the lieutenant if that’s alright with him?”

“Yeah,” Jordan glances at the lieutenant’s closed bedroom door. “I’ll do that.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about what happened on the way back from the market. Instead, the question hovers in the air, heavy in its implicated misery. Jordan watches the lieutenant more closely than ever, looking for any further signs of damage, but the lieutenant hides it well.

Well enough that he doesn’t seem distracted when Jordan mentions that Studge might be visiting this weekend; well enough to appear fairly enthusiastic about the prospect.

The lieutenant is humming a lullaby to Arthur, now, as he walks around the house trying to sooth the infant’s cries, pressing soft kisses to Arthur’s forehead. He re-emerges from his bedroom five minutes later without Arthur. The house is quiet.

“He’s gone to sleep now,” the lieutenant says wearily while rubbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers, before slumping without finesse next to Jordan. “Probably he had a long day, what with us taking him to the market and you know—,” the lieutenant rambles on, his hand making windmill motions as he speaks, before faltering to an unfinished sentence.

“Sir, about what happened this morning—,” Jordan begins cautiously, “I think it’s time that we stop circling around the issue and properly act on it.”

“We need an action plan, Hendo. I don’t even know where to begin to find help.”

“Your dad doesn’t know any psychiatrists?”

“He doesn’t _believe_ in psychiatrists. And I don’t want to—,” the lieutenant starts before he hesitates, his fists tightly clenched as he closes his eyes, swallowing heavily. “I don’t want to be put in a madhouse,” he chokes.

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Jordan promises ardently.

Holding on to the promise is another battlefield altogether.

 

* * *

 

Jordan wakes up at 0320 to a loud howling sound from the lieutenant’s bedroom.

Arthur.

_Oh, shit._

He scrambles towards the lieutenant’s door; his eyes barely open and mouth cottony from sleep. Jordan manages to suck in a sharp breath when he sees Arthur crying on the bed, dirty diapers off and staining the sheets, while the lieutenant is sitting at one hidden corner of the room – shaking, his knees pulled up to his chest, muttering, “Shut up! Shut up!” – and Jordan pulls the lieutenant’s hands away from his face only to discover that the lieutenant is crying.

“Sir,” Jordan begins gently, but the lieutenant stares at Jordan as if he doesn’t recognize him. “Sir, you have to snap to,” Jordan tries again, this time with an authoritative voice. The lieutenant continues to ignore him, while Arthur’s high-pitched bellows threaten to destroy Jordan’s eardrums. Not to mention the familiar scent of baby-poo. “What did you do to him, sir?” Jordan panics, as he examines Arthur carefully. The lieutenant’s mental health is one thing, but Arthur’s well-being is the top priority.

Apart from the obvious need for diaper change, thankfully there are no marks or bruises on Arthur. Jordan cleans Arthur up and shushes him to sleep while keeping an eye on the lieutenant, who is still cowering at the corner. The room is unnaturally silent, all of a sudden—save for Arthur’s soft breaths next to Jordan’s ears.

“What happened, sir?” Jordan tries again.

“I thought he was the enemy. I thought the enemy was using him as a shield – and then— I don’t even know what’s real and what’s not anymore,” the lieutenant rambles.

Jordan’s eyes widen. The lieutenant could have injured Arthur in his blind rage; his delusions. “He’s your _son,_ ” Jordan mutters in disbelief, half to the lieutenant and half to himself.

“You think I don’t know that?” the lieutenant stands up and shouts, infuriated. “You think I don’t know that I’m putting him at risk, even though deep down I wouldn’t even let a single hair touch him?”

Jordan tucks Arthur in his crib, before taking a tentative step closer towards the lieutenant. “You’re angry. You’re angry and confused, but that’s alright. Arthur’s safe now. We’re in a safe place. You and I, we’re going to seek help tomorrow.”

“How could you even imply that I would do anything to harm him?”

“I’m not—,” Jordan pauses, before he retracts and tries again. “I know you wouldn’t harm him, sir,” he manages to say, before the lieutenant lurches out and attempts to throw a punch – but Jordan manages to stop him. “Sir,” Jordan warns, before the lieutenant tries to wrestle out of his grip. The lieutenant is shorter than Jordan by a few inches, but he is strong and wiry. Jordan has the height advantage – and the fact that he’s the rational one makes this an unfair fight. “I know you’re angry, sir,” he tries to placate breathlessly, all while trying to dodge the lieutenant’s attacks, “—but this is neither the time nor the place.” In the end, he utilises his wider arm span to good use and envelopes the lieutenant in a firm, locking embrace that prevents the older man to move. “I’ve got you, sir,” he whispers against the lieutenant’s ear, and that stills the lieutenant – his breaths calming down, his heartbeat against Jordan’s palm lessening.

When the lieutenant turns around to look at him in the eye, Jordan thinks his own breath has been knocked out of him. He could have bent down and captured the lieutenant’s lips in a kiss – because it almost feels that the lieutenant is asking for it, from the way he looks up at Jordan before lowering his gaze to his lips; the up-down motion of his throat as he swallows; the staggered breaths.

“You could let me go now, Sergeant,” the lieutenant says, and Jordan snaps back to reality. His limbs go numb; arms awkward by his sides as he watches the lieutenant turn away and exits the bedroom. The warmth of the lieutenant’s breath still lingers on his skin.

From that moment on, Jordan knows he’s truly fucked.

 

* * *

 

The slide from 'Lieutenant Lallana and Sergeant Henderson' to 'Adam and Jordan' is a slow, spiralling course of events.

But when it eventually comes, it crashes.

 

* * *

 

They drive all the way to the general practitioner at the end of the town – to avoid seeing the lieutenant’s dad, who is the obvious and nearer GP clinic to the lieutenant’s house. “How do you get here usually?” Jordan asks, as he checks the rearview mirror to park.

“By bus,” the lieutenant replies curtly. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks more miserable than usual. Arthur, on the other hand, looks perfectly healthy as he coos and laughs at the funny faces that Jordan makes.

The morning clinic is filled with mothers and their children in the waiting area, and Jordan and the lieutenant are the only men there. The lieutenant checks in – “Adam Lallana, to see Dr Robertson for Arthur’s baby check,” he tells the receptionist, and she asks him to take a seat. Jordan picks up a ladies’ fashion magazine from three months ago, but drops it when an elderly lady seated opposite him gives him a disapproving look.

The lieutenant excuses himself to go to the loo, and Jordan decides to kill time by playing peek-a-boo with Arthur instead. He’s well aware that the woman beside him is staring at them like they’re some kind of anomaly. Arthur sneezes, and Jordan rubs his button-nose before Arthur tries to grab at his finger.

“I hope you’ll remember me, mate,” Jordan tells Arthur. “There’s a fair chance that you won’t, but it’s nice to hope, right?”

Arthur lets out an adorable laugh, as if he understands.

“I sure do hope that your dad gets better, though,” Jordan says, lips pursing into a worried look, which Arthur also seems to understand – because he tries to grab at Jordan’s finger again – as if trying to pacify him.

Jordan breaks out a tired smile just as the lieutenant returns. When the doctor calls them in, Jordan could feel the eyes of the ladies in the waiting room – including the receptionist’s – burning the skin at the back of his neck.

 

* * *

 

Dr Robertson doesn’t even bat an eyelash when the lieutenant tells him that his wife has left him. There’s no good pretending that all is well – it’s better to be frank, and Jordan lets out a breath he’s held since he entered the consultation room when Dr Robertson says, “Come take a seat, Mr Lallana. What’s important is that you and the baby are doing well.”

Jordan and the lieutenant share a knowing glance at each other behind the doctor’s back, but they keep mum for the time being. If the lieutenant wants to spill, it’s his place – not Jordan’s.

“And you are…?” Dr Robertson looks at Jordan expectantly for an answer, but his kind smile reassures Jordan that he is not being non-judgmental.

“Jordan Henderson,” the lieutenant answers for him. “He was under my command during the war, and he came to visit. He helped— a lot,” the lieutenant continues, “—with Arthur. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him, to be honest.”

Dr Robertson hums appreciatively. “Alright, Mr Henderson,” he says, “—would you be able to help me get baby Arthur undressed for his check-up? I’m just going to weigh and measure him, do some reflexes, et cetera,” he explains. Jordan looks at the lieutenant who nods, before picking Arthur up from the stroller.

The good doctor examines Arthur thoroughly, measuring his head circumference and testing his reflexes, before recording the results on his clipboard. Jordan helps to put Arthur’s clothes back on, before tucking him in the stroller when Dr Robertson says, “You’ll be glad to know that he’s growing up well. Is he being breastfed, or purely formula milk, or…?”

“He was breastfed at first, but since his mother left—it’s been more and more difficult—,” the lieutenant sighs, “—so now he’s completely switched to formula. He takes it well, though.”

“How about you?”

The lieutenant’s head snaps up. “Sorry?”

“The baby’s doing very well, given the circumstances. But it must be tough for you, too. Are _you_ doing well?”

Jordan takes in a sharp, deep breath.

The lieutenant exhales. The muscles in his body tighten; faint beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead. “Not really,” he confesses, his fingers balling up into fists in his lap. “Everything became harder after the war and I had these mood swings and nightmares and—,” he pauses, before rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palm. “I’m so glad that Jordan’s here, y’know? Because he was in the war too and he understands and he doesn’t leave me hanging. Or hasn’t left— _yet_.”

Jordan tries not to overthink what the lieutenant means by that.

“The point is, I’m not crazy and I don’t want to be. But at the same time I know there’s something wrong and I don’t know how to fix it.”

The doctor turns his attention to Jordan. “What do you say, Mr Henderson? Is this accurate?”

The cat is out of the bag, and it’s probably for the better. “Yes,” Jordan agrees.

“I was in the war too, Mr Lallana,” Dr Robertson says. “Scottish Highlanders. And you’re not the first person I’ve seen with similar symptoms. It takes a lot of coaxing for them to come forward with their problems, because they think there’s no way out.”

“I’m not a madman,” the lieutenant reiterates stubbornly. “I don’t want to be institutionalized.”

Dr Robertson rummages in his drawer, before he pulls out a pamphlet and hands it over to the lieutenant. “We’re working with war vets to try a new form of therapy that will not involve institutionalization,” he explains. “You’ll need meds, yes. But the backbone of the therapy is support. From family, from friends.”

The lieutenant’s eyes flickers uncomfortably at the mention of _family_.

“And I don’t think _support_ is something that you’re lacking, Mr Lallana,” the doctor says kindly, as he steadies his gaze at Jordan. “We’re also trying to have regular meetings with other war vets to share their experiences. To bond. To connect. The American psychologists tried this out with some of their vets, and they’ve passed this method over to us.”

“Does it work?” Jordan asks concernedly.

Dr Robertson smiles wryly. “It takes time, Mr Henderson. It takes a lot of effort, a lot of patience. Like I said, family and friends’ support are important. Engaging with the therapy is important. But it’s certainly more humane than locking people up against their will and subjecting them to treatments that don’t necessarily work.”

The lieutenant skims over the information on the pamphlet; his gaze skitters across the printed words. “How do I get involved in this?”

“I can make a few phone calls to get you registered in the program. And I’ll book you an appointment with the psychiatrist at the head of this. He worked with some of the American GIs after the war too, and I assure you he’s not a quack.”

“I need time to think about it.”

“Take all the time you need,” Dr Robertson says.

Jordan doesn’t even realize that the lieutenant has been tightly clasping their hands together throughout the entire conversation, until the lieutenant lets his hand go to shake hands with the doctor.

 

* * *

 

“How do you feel now?” Jordan asks as soon as the lieutenant enters the house.

“Like a new man,” the lieutenant smiles. There is a slight spring in his steps now, a genuine fleck of happiness in the upturned twist of his lips. “Thank you,” he says – and the tears in his eyes aren’t of pain or suffering, but of pure gratitude and unadulterated joy.

“When you hit rock bottom, the only way is up,” Jordan mutters under his breath. “You opened up to the good doctor on your own. I was just there egging you on,” he shrugs.

“Maybe I need the egging on,” the lieutenant says, holding the doctor’s pamphlet up and waving it in Jordan’s face. “Yesterday I was aimless. Today I have something to look forward to.”

“I’m happy for you, sir.”

Jordan says the words like he means it.

Dr Robertson tells them that Dr Moreno, the psychiatrist has a free appointment slot tomorrow, and the next group therapy session is on Wednesday next week. By which time Jordan would already leave town to return to his old life. Away from the lieutenant, away from Arthur – away from this idyll domesticity. The lieutenant knows this, and tells him not to worry. “You have your own life to live, Hendo. I’ve come this far. I’ll make it.”

“I could stay a bit longer if you want,” Jordan bargains. “I mean, the doc says you need support. Studge’s coming this weekend. Your mom— you have to tell your mom, she’ll be thrilled!”

The lieutenant’s reply is not at all what he expects.

Jordan is pulled into a firm embrace – a brotherly, camaraderie-like, no-nonsense manly hug complete with awkward pats on his back – and he remembers sharing a similar hug with the lieutenant on the last day before they went separate ways. He wants to tell the lieutenant, “Be careful, you’re high – and I don’t want you to crash,” but at the same time he lets go and returns the hug, as if to say, “It’s okay— I’m here to put you together, so even if you crash and fall and burn I’ll pick up the pieces and I’ll help you.”

He was a broken man before he met the lieutenant. He was aimless; he was a kid from the wrong side of the track, he thought he’d struggle in the Airborne. As if by chance he turned out to be a decent sniper, as if by chance he ended up being a Sergeant in an elite army squad, as if by chance he was blessed to have a direct commanding officer he would easily lay his life for.

_Lieutenant Adam Lallana._

“Sir,” Jordan whispers – or at least tries to, because the lieutenant – no – _Adam_ – has placed a cold finger upon his lips, effectively shushing him. Jordan pulls Adam’s hand away, but doesn’t dare do anything else beyond that. Adam ends up tiptoeing instead, before pulling Jordan’s head down softly to meet him halfway.

The kiss is quick and soft and definitely _not_ unpleasant.

And Jordan doesn’t know why he’s still holding back, not when he’s thought of this ever since Germany. He’s imagined caressing the short-clipped hair at Adam’s nape, the little scar underneath Adam’s chin from his helmet strap. But he kept his thoughts to himself, suppressed them and willed them to go away. Thought that his dick was just fucking with his brains, because of the lack of girls in the battlefield and the lieutenant was the most feminine-looking thing on his team—

_No._

So maybe he’d ogled his lieutenant a couple of times. Combat-jacked to an image of his lieutenant a couple of times. But that was then. He’s a better man than that, now. The more Jordan knows the man, the more he respects Adam. Maybe he’s even _half-in-love_ with his Lieutenant, if anyone were to ask. So Adam would never be reduced to just his immature fuck-toy fantasies.

“Why are you here, Jordan?” Adam asks, with heavy-lidded eyes, a calloused hand on Jordan’s cheek. “Why did you come here?”

“I came here to see you, sir,” Jordan replies, shuddering as Adam traces his jawline with a finger.

“You stayed for _him_ ,” Adam says, resting a hand on Jordan’s chest. Jordan knows who Adam is referring to. _Arthur._ “I’m sorry if I’m reading the situation wrong, because lately it’s all been fucked up,” Adam bites his lower lip, before trying to pull away from Jordan.

Jordan refuses to let go. “I stayed for the both of you.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“You shouldn’t have turned up, Jordan,” Adam says, before trying to wrench away from Jordan’s grip, but Jordan only holds him tighter. “You should have stayed AWOL in Sunderland or whichever hole you came from and let me be,” Adam groans, closing his eyes. When he opens them a second later, they are brimming with tears. He isn’t able to look at Jordan in the eyes, and for a brief moment Jordan has no idea why.

Until he eventually realizes the root of the problem.

_You’re such a fucktard, Hendo._

The lieutenant has been in love with him even _before_ Jordan ever comes to realize that he’s been _half-in-love_ with the lieutenant in the first place.

 

* * *

 

Jordan would have never guessed, but then again maybe he’s afraid to look beyond what he’s supposed to. If there had been time, he would court the lieutenant properly. If the lieutenant isn’t a man. If the lieutenant isn’t his commanding officer. If Jordan isn’t _just_ a fucking Sergeant. He would be a gentleman, even if he knows that the lieutenant is going to enter Oxbridge when he’s probably going to end up in a gutter after the war, if they’re not dead by then.

_Personal feelings, Hendo._

He thought it was all squared away after they declared VE day, after the troops were sent home – the broken toy soldiers that they were – even when he had no home or family to return to. After he learnt from Milly that Adam was getting married.

He remembers being on watch with Adam. They were overlooking a town – a German stronghold – getting pounded by tonnes of American ammo at zero-dark-thirty, and despite the damage done and lives lost, it did make up for a spectacular light show.

Their dumbass thick-headed Captain had summoned the lieutenant on his radio, asking him to send a scout team into the danger zone, to show that they were being ‘aggressive’.

Jordan witnessed the frustration in Adam’s expression; in his voice as he tried to persuade the Captain to cancel the order. The Captain insisted that he should still go, never mind that he would potentially come back with 15 out 23 living paratroopers for a recon mission that had proved futile even from the outset. In the end, Adam had switched off his radio in fury to avoid listening to more of the Captain’s yammering.

“They want me to be more _aggressive_. Send the men into _this,”_ Adam tipped his head towards the calamity unfolding before their eyes. “For what? So I can come home with 22 men instead of 23? For _what?_ ” Adam had asked rhetorically, gritting his teeth as his gaze focused into the distance.

Jordan had lifted his head up just inches from his rifle – and he wished there was something he could do or say that would magically make things better. Instead, he only managed to come up with an asinine, “I trust your judgment, sir.”

Adam harrumphed. “I could be wrong,” he said wryly. “A platoon commander’s situational awareness doesn’t extend very far.”

“Far _enough_ , sir,” Jordan had replied. It had all come out cool and clipped, as if he’d thought of that comeback as naturally as shooting the enemy with his trusted rifle.

“I’m glad you’re my team leader, Hendo.” A genuine, amused smirk had appeared on Adam’s face. He would be allowed happiness even for this one second, even if he knew that the repercussions for disobeying a direct order from the Captain would come later.

“Why? To sweet talk you?” Jordan had winked, brushing it off as a little less than flirting and definitely not fraternizing.

The lieutenant shrugged– and if not for the darkness and grime covering the lieutenant’s face, Jordan would have sworn than Adam was blushing.

In another time, in another place – Jordan would have kissed Adam. He would have taken his time; he would have done this properly. He would have bought flowers and rode a bike to Adam’s front door, maybe sang silly love songs to put a smile on Adam’s face – and make it stay. But he was born too late – or too early.

Jordan had to make do with this bombing light spectacle in lieu of festival fireworks to impress Adam, but he didn’t mind.  

 

* * *

 

“Why can’t people have what they want? The things were all there to content everybody; yet everybody has the wrong thing.” Adam’s voice is quiet, muffled against Jordan’s chest. Jordan caresses the back of Adam’s head, before pulling back to search Adam’s face.

Fuck this, Jordan thinks.

“I want you,” he says, “—and God help me if you’re not right for me,” he whispers harshly, before swooping down to kiss Adam again – deeper, this time, coaxing Adam’s soft lips open. The guttural sound that escapes Adam’s throat stirs something in Jordan’s guts. Adam throws an arm around Jordan’s neck, straining up to push further into the kiss – and Jordan realizes that although he was the one who instigated the second kiss, he was no longer in control of the situation. The press of Adam’s lips against his – the warmth, the taste – and the sparks of electricity rushing down his body when their tongues meet – Jordan realizes that he is the lost lamb, and Adam is his shepherd.

Jordan could feel wetness against his cheeks, his brows – and he pulls away to see Adam smiling blissfully, albeit with tears in his eyes. “This will only end badly, Jordan,” he says, and Jordan fears for his own sanity – because how could someone still look so beautiful even when they are tormented by their own inner demons? And Adam is the testament of all things beautiful, even when he is worried about whatever would come out of this – and he says it with a _smile._

“But we’ve barely even started,” Jordan reasons.

“All the more reason why we should stop now.”

“No.”

The sound of Jordan’s own voice startles him, the way it resonates throughout the room and the corridors – a firm one syllable word that makes Adam’s eyes become even wider, before he blinks and lets out a tiny, desperate laughter, his entire body shaking as he does so.

Adam hangs his head low, backs up to the nearest wall before his legs give way, sliding down to the floor.

It is only then that Jordan realizes that Adam is definitely not laughing anymore.

He is sobbing.

“Adam—,” Jordan nears him, but Adam cuts him off.

“I’d hoped that you would push me away and call me a decrepit swine for even considered the idea of falling in love with you,” Adam says tremulously as he lifts his head up, but not quite looking at Jordan. “A fucking _Sodomite._ ”

He spits the last word like venom.

“We’re not Sodomites if we haven’t fucked,” Jordan points out, before adding a “— _Sir,_ ” at the end. A slight smile decorates Adam’s lips, pink and plump and thoroughly debauched; his cheeks flushed scarlet even more when Jordan’s gaze meets his. “We don’t have to do anything. I’d still love you. _I love you_ ,” Jordan says, and he says it with honesty and determination, because it’s the truth. And once the words were out from his mouth, he feels free.

“I love you,” Adam replies – quiet, trembling, but Jordan still hears the revelation, loud and clear. “And I don’t know what to do,” Adam whispers.

Jordan is about to reply when Adam adds, “Don’t say that you’ll stay. Because I know you’ll need to leave. Eventually.”

_Because everyone else always do._

“Maybe that’s true,” Jordan says, as he reaches out to wipe another tear that has trailed down Adam’s cheek. Adam shudders at the contact. “Doesn’t mean I won’t come back,” he promises. “Even if I leave, I will come back. _For you_.”

Adam lets out a deep sigh, the kind that reminds Jordan of Lieutenant Adam Lallana in action— when they were in the heat of battle and Adam resigned himself to fate, to let things take its course after being metaphorically fucked by Command’s orders.

He slides forward and pretends to smooth Jordan’s collars, before his fingertips make contact with the warm skin at Jordan’s nape. Adam’s face is merely inches from Jordan’s – and their gazes meet, before Adam captures Jordan’s lips in another kiss, taking his time – as if they have forever. They move languidly, the rush of the first and second kisses paced into leisurely synchrony – and yet more fulfilling.

Later, Adam will tell Jordan that he’s seen him run off into the bushes during the war, and knows what Jordan had been up to. He doesn’t know _who_ Jordan thinks about during those private moments— and when Jordan tells Adam that it’s _him_ , he blushes hard.

“How long?” Adam asks, and Jordan tells him that it probably starts after their first battle.

“How long for you?” Jordan asks Adam, and the younger man has the audacity to look sheepish.

“Since our first handshake at camp,” Adam replies – which effectively shuts Jordan up.

Across the opposite room, Arthur begins to cry.

 

* * *

 

“Breathe,” Jordan tells Adam, when the younger man wakes up in the middle of the night, grouching and looking for his rifle – a knee-jerk reaction to the threat he has faced in his nightmares. Jordan’s immediate reaction is to switch on the lights before standing next to Arthur’s crib, ensuring that Adam doesn’t accidentally hurt Arthur in his delirious state.

The baby is sound asleep.

“Sir, it’s me. Sergeant Henderson, sir,” Jordan says steadily, holding his hands up in a placating gesture – and Adam’s wide, fierce eyes soften when he recognizes the man standing in front of him; Jordan’s soothing voice calming him down. “Breathe, sir. It’s me. And we’re in your home. We’re in friendly territory, sir. There’s no enemy here.”

The realization hits Adam hard; his ready-for-battle countenance wavering, before turning to something more grim and sinister. “Except myself,” he mutters under his breath, before falling backwards against the mattress, covering his face with his hands. “I’m so tired of this. I’m so tired of not knowing what’s real and what’s not,” he says, choking into sobs.

Jordan glances at the clock on the wall. 0450.

The ticking seconds filling in the silence, punishing them with every beat.

“We’re going to see the psychiatrist today, aren’t we? We’re almost there. _You’re_ almost there.”

Adam lifts up one hand and squints to look at Jordan. His breathing has begun to normalize, before he hiccups accidentally. Jordan smiles before moving towards the bed, crawling on the mattress before kneeling next to Adam’s head, and leans down to press a kiss on Adam’s forehead.

“Breathe, sir,” he whispers against Adam’s damp skin, clasping Adam’s hand in his. Adam holds on to his hand as if it’s his lifeline, and tries to sit up. Jordan lets him, before manoeuvring Adam’s head to be pillowed by Jordan’s lap. Adam continues to stare up at Jordan, upside-down, expressionless. He still hasn’t let go of Jordan’s right hand – while Jordan’s left hand rests on Adam’s chest; the hammering beats of Adam’s heart against his palm, willing it to slow down. He watches the rise and fall of Adam’s chest, plays with the tendrils of hair that has fallen upon Adam’s brow.

Jordan rests his back against the pillows, watches Adam’s eyelids flutter shut as slumber takes him. He wishes that he could enter Adam’s dreams, so that his Lieutenant would be less alone. So that the lieutenant will feel more supported— so that he knows that Jordan wouldn’t let anyone or anything fuck him up, even if it’s in the figment of Adam’s own imagination.

From this angle, the lieutenant looks peaceful.

A tear trails down from one corner of Adam’s closed eye, and gently Jordan wipes it away.

 

* * *

 

Jordan’s legs feel like dead weight when he tries to walk, after he wakes up. Adam has woken up much, much earlier, has thrown a blanket over him while he changes Arthur’s diaper and goes for a shower. Jordan’s neck aches, and his gait still feel wobbly from sleeping in the wrong position, but his minor ailments are short-lived when he sees Adam feeding Arthur at the kitchen, making cooing noises and laughing with the toddler.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Sergeant.”

Their routine hasn’t changed – and old habits die hard. Adam still wakes up earlier than Jordan, and Jordan still couldn’t resist calling Adam ‘Sir’ – despite the obvious change in status quo.

A blush creeps up Adam’s neck, as he tries to suppress a smile at the sight of Jordan leaning against the kitchen wall with a bedhead.

“Are you ready for today?” Jordan asks, crossing his arms as he watches Adam humming and making funny faces at Arthur. Adam continues bottlefeeding Arthur, when he catches Jordan’s gaze and nods firmly.

“I’m ready,” Adam says steadily, shoulders squared. It’s as if last night never happened.

Jordan has never been more proud of his Lieutenant than in that moment.

 

* * *

 

He drives Adam to the designated clinic, and waits in the empty reception area while Adam gets called into the psychiatrist’s office. Dr Moreno is the last thing from being military-material, but similar to Dr Robertson, he is kind and non-judgmental. He nods at Jordan – who is carrying Arthur in his arms, before inviting Adam into his office. Jordan understands that it is Adam’s one-on-one session with the psychiatrist, now. He will only get called in if he is needed.

At the moment, he is content with just waiting.

He spends the next hour reading nursery rhymes and an illustrated book about dragons to Arthur.

 

* * *

 

Adam tells him during the drive home that he was given medication and some homework to do. Jordan has looked at him in incredulity, but Adam explains that it is part of a mind-training and problem-solving exercise that he has to do, when he is faced with another one of his episodes.

Arthur lets out a loud belch in approval.

Adam breaks into a small laughter – a sign of genuine mirth, before he picks up the little guy and pats Arthur’s back. “You’ve gotta behave, Arthur,” he says, before planting a wet kiss on Arthur’s forehead, causing the baby to squeal and laugh, too.

At the next turning, Jordan halts to a stop and parks at an empty spot. The street is empty, and they are nowhere near Adam’s house yet.

“Why are we stopping?” Adam asks in confusion.

Jordan grips the steering wheel tightly, looks ahead, biting his lower lip – unsure if he is actually willing to execute what he has in mind. He looks around, checking the rearview mirror to make sure that no one is watching, before leaning towards the passenger seat – into Adam’s space. He picks up Arthur and tucks him safely into his seat in the back.

Adam watches his every move speechlessly.

Jordan’s breathing is erratic, his brain short-circuiting at the sound of Adam’s voice, at the way Adam’s hair is all messy from being ruffled by Arthur’s small hands, at the sight of Adam’s cheeks blooming; his animated, quizzical brow. The dark circles around his eyes are gone. Adam appears livelier, healthier – _alive,_ and something inside Jordan’s heart swells.

Without warning, Jordan cups Adam’s face in his palms and kisses him.

Adam freezes in an instant, before giving in – kissing Jordan back with equal fervour and attention. Jordan breaks the kiss when he notices the reflection of a car moving from behind them in the side mirror, clearing his throat as if he hasn’t just kissed Adam in broad daylight, in public.

Adam laughs again, and Jordan tries not to stare at the crinkly lines at the corner of Adam’s eyes when he does so – because he’s at the risk of falling even deeper into the abyss than he already is.

“You’ve gotta behave too, Sergeant Henderson,” Adam says with a smirk, when Jordan starts the engine.

“Solid copy, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur sleeps on Jordan’s chest while he stretches his long, gangly limbs on the bed, listening to the sounds of Adam showering next door. “We’ll need to get you more pictured books, little fella,” Jordan mumbles to the sleeping baby. “I think I’ve gone through all of the books your dad’s bought for you, to the point that I’ve memorized them all. You must be bored of the same books, don’t you? Except the one with the plane,” Jordan rambles on. “Oh! And the one with the dragon and the princess. I don’t know why but you really like that one too. Personally that one is my favourite. But don’t tell your dad,” Jordan whispers, as if fearing that Adam might hear him.

“Too late, Sergeant. I’ve already known your secret,” Adam says, his voice startling Jordan, jolting Arthur awake. Jordan turns his head to see Adam standing at the bathroom door— freshly showered, clad in a bathroom robe. Arthur yawns, and Jordan sits up to balance the baby on his lap as he begins to cry.

“I’ll take him,” Adam says as he pads towards Jordan barefooted. He surprises Jordan with a quick kiss on the lips before taking Arthur in his arms and shushing him, carrying the baby to the kitchen. “I didn’t know you liked the story about the dragon and the princess,” Jordan hears Adam say to Arthur, and Jordan snorts. He follows Adam’s trail and simply watches in awe as Adam expertly balances Arthur in one arm and prepares Arthur’s bottle feed with the other. He’s witnessed this scene many times, but he’s never truly appreciated how much Adam had to go through to survive this and excel at it.

“I have a favour to ask, Jordan,” Adam says sheepishly, as he begins to bottlefeed Arthur.

“Anything,” Jordan replies.

“I’ve taken Dr Moreno’s meds as he prescribed it. It’s a sedative, so I might get knocked out for the next couple of hours – might not even wake up if there’s an earthquake.”

“You want me to look after Arthur while you’re sleeping,” Jordan surmises. “You know it’s not a problem, right?”

Adam’s soft smile is warm and wonderful, yet it manages to set the fire in Jordan’s heart ablaze. “Thank you,” he mouths silently, before pressing a kiss on the crown of Arthur’s head. Jordan steps forward, and as if it has been rehearsed countless of times, Adam wordlessly tips Arthur back into Jordan’s waiting arms.

Arthur finishes his bottle and Jordan grabs the spit rag from the table, wiping the corners of Arthur’s mouth. “I’ve got you, little fella. Now go to sleep,” he tells Arthur, and as if Arthur understands him, he begins to yawn.

“One week and he listens to everything you say,” Adam says in a mixture of incredulity and amusement, as he stares at Arthur – before switching his gaze at Jordan.

“I consider it as karma,” Jordan replies humbly, returning Adam’s gaze with equal astuteness.

_I followed you into the battlefield. I listened to you and executed your orders. We’ve been through hell and survived together. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you, Adam._

Adam looks away as if he has heard Jordan’s thoughts. “Dr Moreno said it’s going to take half an hour before the meds take its effects,” he says instead.

“Did he say anything else?”

Adam sighs. “He said – that the symptoms had been going on for a while even before Arthur was born. I was losing sleep from the nightmares, over the impending relationship breakdown with my wife— my dad. Between the divorce and getting full custody of Arthur – then it just got worse after that. I just stopped sleeping completely – until –,” he pauses, and looks up at Jordan.

He doesn’t have to say it. Jordan understands.

_Until I arrived at your doorstep and offered to look after Arthur._

“I’m so glad you’re here, Hendo,” Adam confesses instead.

Jordan smiles softly.

_There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you, Adam._

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur is sleeping soundly in his crib. Jordan is occupying the entire length of the sofa in the living room, as he flips through Adam’s battered, translated copy of _The Little Prince_. Adam has changed into comfortable clothes, even managed to grab a quick lunch before the effects of his meds begin to sink in.

Jordan could hear Adam’s footsteps heading towards him, and he closes his book just in time to see Adam hovering over him with heavy-lidded eyes. “We should get you to bed,” Jordan says, as he straightens himself up. Adam merely gives him a lazy smile as he places one hand on Jordan’s shoulder to steady himself, before leaning down to give Jordan a quick peck at the corner of his mouth.

“You,” Jordan begins, “—are fucking stoned.”

Adam sniffles and shrugs. Jordan looks at him concernedly, before standing up to make sure that Adam doesn’t fall over. “How are you still standing?” he asks, sliding a hand on Adam’s hip – the other on Adam’s shoulder, but Adam only gives him an annoyed stare.

Jordan guides Adam towards the bedroom, trying to resist responding to Adam’s lips on his neck, sucking the skin at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “You need to lie down, sir.”

“I’m going to fall asleep if I do that,” Adam retorts, slurring his words as he hooks an arm around Jordan’s neck, nuzzling his face against the fabric of Jordan’s shirt.

“You should go to sleep, then.”

“Don’t want to. Not yet.”

“Why not? Are you waiting for something?” Jordan asks.

Adam pulls away and looks at Jordan as if he is an idiot. “I’m waiting for _you,_ Sergeant.”

He manoeuvres Adam to bed – before rolling Adam over to spoon him, Adam’s back pressed firmly to Jordan’s front, as he places an arm around Adam’s hip. He breathes in the smell of Adam’s neck, nips at Adam’s ear and kisses Adam’s nape. Jordan clutches Adam’s hands in his, and although Adam is asleep, he clasps his fingers with Jordan’s in return, as if by reflex.

And Jordan thinks, he has never been tied to _anything_ or _anyone_ before, but it seems fitting that it should be _Adam_ who changes that.

It is the last coherent thought he has before he drifts off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Arthur wakes up crying at 2325, which jolts Jordan awake— the lights are still on, Adam is barely affected by the loud shrill – he merely rolls over and continues to snore softly.

 _I might not wake up even if there’s an earthquake,_ Adam has said.

Jordan chuckles to himself, before he realizes that he still has Arthur to attend to. After changing Arthur’s diapers and putting him back to sleep, Jordan goes for a quick midnight snack before retiring to bed again.

Arthur is unable to stay asleep for at least an hour for the next seven hours, and it is up to Jordan to keep making sure that Arthur is okay. After the fifth time, Adam rouses slightly from sleep, blinking at Jordan in confusion, disorientated in time and place. At least, he hasn’t been grouching or appeared to have any nightmares. “It’s okay, sir. I’ve got Arthur. He’s just crying again – I’m going to put him back to sleep now,” Jordan reassures him. “Right, Arthur?” he asks the little toddler in his arms, who has quietened down since his wailing only five minutes earlier.

Adam pulls a blanket over his shoulders, looks at Jordan and Arthur with a contented smile. “You’re obviously the cool dad,” Adam comments. “I never could get him to stop crying in less than five minutes,” he mumbles hazily, before dozing off again.

Jordan stares at Adam in silence, frozen in his steps.

_He just called me ‘the cool dad’._

And then, it hits Jordan, with little Arthur in his arms looking at him fondly.

_I’m a dad._

 

* * *

 

On Friday morning, Studge arrives at Adam’s doorstep wearing an enormous smile, hugging Jordan and Adam tightly and drops multiple kisses on Arthur’s forehead. “Look what Uncle Studge brought for you, little guy. More toys, and more books!”

“You don’t have to, Studge,” Adam says, but Studge merely grins.

Being a soldier, Studge has been trained to notice small things— and maybe he’s been trained in the art of reading Adam and Jordan, even during the war. Maybe he has noticed it way before Jordan does, but when there is a change, he notices it even more.

Which is why Jordan isn’t even surprised when Studge pulls him into the kitchen and asks, “Are you fucking the lieutenant?”

Any sense of propriety completely thrown out of the window, typical of Studge. But Jordan knows that it’s only because Studge has the lieutenant’s best interest at heart.

“No,” Jordan says, because it’s the truth.

“Is he fucking you?”

“Nobody is fucking anybody, you fucktard.”

“Then what the hell am I seeing now?”

“I don’t know, Studge. It’s _your_ pair of eyes. What _are_ you seeing?”

“I’m seeing two men who are in love with each other.”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“I _don’t,_ ” Studge says, his alarmed features softening. “But other people might do.”

Jordan rubs his eyes tiredly, shoulders slumped low as he leans against the sink.

“Just— be careful, alright? If other people know—,” Studge begins with full concern, before Jordan cuts him off. “We’re fucked. I know.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Studge,” Adam says, surprising Studge and Jordan. They don’t even realize that he has been standing by the door.

“I’m not going to say anything, sir. I’ve got your six. I swear. I mean, I’ve always known, at the back of my mind— but, for this to really, actually, happen? Society’s moral compass aside— but what do they know. We’ve done so much fucked-up stuff during the war. What’s one more fucked-up thing according to them is going to add to the equation?” Studge rambles, still reeling in shock – it seems that he’s accepting the fact that Jordan and Adam are _together_ , but is fearful of the consequences—whatever they might be.

Adam lets out a deep sigh. “I’m not preaching anything contrary to accepted morality. I am not advocating free love in this or any other case. Society must go on, I suppose, and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and madness.”

“You’re not mad, sir. I’ve always told you that before,” Studge says.

“I believe you, Studge,” Adam replies thoughtfully.

 

* * *

 

On Friday night, Adam’s mom phones up to check how he is doing. Jordan watches Adam’s impassive hums to whatever Mrs Lallana was saying on the phone, before continues to read the new, colourful fairytale book Studge had brought to Arthur. Suddenly, a loud and sharp, “What?” from Adam causes Jordan to stop mid-track, lifting his head up and catches the moment Adam’s expression switches from bored to downright disgusted.

He doesn’t want to eavesdrop, but it is difficult not to when Adam is directing his gaze sharply at Jordan – and somehow, he knows that the conversation has now involved him, too. He stands up and saunters over to Adam, squeezing his shoulder while keeping an eye on Arthur.

“Why does he want to know about Hendo?” Adam asks into the receiver defensively.

Jordan takes a sharp breath.

It’s Adam’s father.

“No, why does he want Jordan to come to dinner? I don’t— why now? No, Mum, I’m fine. I’m a lot better than what I was, and yes, Jordan had been a tremendous help—,” Adam says again, visibly flustered by what Mrs Lallana had said from the other end. “What makes him think that I’ll bring Jordan over when he obviously doesn’t ever want to see me again, ever?”

Adam’s mother must be pleading from the other end of the phone, because Adam is sighing and rubbing his forehead seemingly in defeat, his features changing from full of murderous intention into a glum sulk. “I’ll have to talk to him about it, Mum. I can’t – Jordan’s here. We’ll have to think about it.”

And with that, he hangs up.

“Your Mum?” Jordan asks.

Adam nods, breathing raggedly to control his anger. He pinches the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes tiredly. “She says my dad wants us to come for dinner. Tomorrow,” he says, before shaking his head in disbelief. “What makes him think that I’ll just miraculously show up after he kicked me out of the house and hasn’t even talked to me in months? He hasn’t even visited Arthur, for fuck’s sake!”

Jordan rubs Adam’s back, holding Adam’s hands as he clenches and unclenches his fists in resentment. “Why now, though?” he asks Adam softly.

Adam tells Jordan that his father has been hearing ‘things’ about whatever progress that Adam is making – nosy neighbours must have been feeding information about the arrival of a certain tall, lanky ex- Army Sergeant in the neighbourhood; the stranger who has been spending time with the madman and his kid.

“I wonder what else he knows about us,” Jordan mutters. “Are you worried about what he thinks?”

Adam’s reply is acerbic. “I don’t give a flying fuck about what he thinks,” he says. “Fucking neighbours who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

Jordan sits next to Adam and attempts a half back-hug, slinging an arm around Adam’s shoulders. “Well. With respect, sir, do you want to know what I think?”

Adam purses his lips, side-eyeing Jordan hard, before relenting. “Your input is very much appreciated, Sergeant.”

“I think your dad secretly cares about you, but he is too proud to undo the things he’d done to you. Too proud to say sorry. He’s the elder, after all. I think, deep down, he’s still looking out for you. Asks around about you. Making sure you’re alright.”

Adam’s frown deepens, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Jordan apprehensively. “He wants to meet you,” he says, letting the implication of those words hang heavily in the air.

“Like you said, sir. I don’t give a flying fuck about what he thinks. He could meet me and he could form his own judgment. I’m not going to let it affect me.” He says this with such determination that manages to put a slight upward curve to Adam’s lips – and for the first time he has the courage to claim them as his. He kisses Adam, deep and sensuous, before letting go half-heartedly. “So. Are you going to accept his invitation?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Adam asks half-rhetorically.

“Another bloodbath with potential murder victims?” Jordan jokes morbidly, before holding his hands up in surrender. “Too soon. My bad,” he shrieks, but not before Adam hits his head with the back of his hand.

“I’m going to be there for you, sir,” Jordan promises. “You’re going to show them that you’re so much better than what you were, and that you’re not a freak. I’ll be watching your six, sir.”

“Like old times,” Adam mutters.

“Let slip the dogs of war,” Jordan nods enthusiastically.

Adam snorts. “I didn’t know you read Shakespeare.”

“I don’t,” Jordan shrugs. “I just happened to pick up your copy of Julius Caesar and really liked Antony’s speech.”

 

* * *

 

Family affairs aren’t Jordan’s thing – he no longer has one, since all of his family members have died during the war. The lieutenant was with him when the news arrived – his family home has been demolished during the Blitz without being able to escape – and that was that. No time to mourn when his own life was at stake. Studge and Milly had been there, too. They’d all given him hugs and words of encouragement, which was appreciated and needed – but the lieutenant—

He’d pulled Jordan into a hug, too.

It was the first time that Jordan and Adam had ever shared an embrace—and the lieutenant didn’t hug just _anyone._ Even after successful missions, the lieutenant barely broke into a smile, but Jordan realizes now, that the more times he’s replayed the events in his mind, the lieutenant has always reserved a special smile for him.

The first hug was to console him – and after that, the lieutenant was more amenable to physical contact, although the first few touches always felt like Jordan’s skin was going to burn. Jordan didn’t dare instigate any physical contact with the lieutenant – because that would be against the rules, and he always had to wait; had to work hard until it was enough to earn them.

 

* * *

 

Studge volunteers to look after Arthur at home, while Jordan and Adam attend dinner. “Don’t worry about me, I’ve done this hundreds of times,” he assures Jordan, who evidently has become so protective of Arthur that he doesn’t trust anyone except him or Adam to handle the child. Finally, after much persuasion, Adam agrees to let Arthur stay at home with Studge.

The next hurdle, however, isn’t as easy to overcome.

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere at the dining table isn’t as awkward as Jordan has thought it would be. Dr Lallana, Adam’s father is an intimidating figure – but Jordan is trying to figure out whether Adam’s father is the one who is intimidated by Jordan’s looming presence next to his son, instead.

Mrs Lallana’s introduction didn’t help either –  she’d been conscientious enough to mention that Jordan was not just a Sergeant in Adam’s platoon during the war, but also one of the team leaders who reported directly to Adam – his right-hand man, basically. And unlike other vets that had visited Adam in the past, none was as tall as Jordan, which makes his presence in the household more domineering. Jordan remains respectful, minding his manners and choice of vocabulary. He tries to be pleasant and charming to everyone— including the servants– and Adam keeps telling him that by the end of the night at least three of his family’s maids would be head-over-heels for him.

The atmosphere is civil; Adam’s interaction with his father limited to basic questions such as _‘how are you,’ ‘I am fine’, ‘how is Arthur’, ‘he is fine too,’_ ‘ _who’s looking after him’_ , ‘ _Studge_ ’, – and not venturing far below the cracked surface. Jordan watches their exchanges carefully, reading Dr Lallana’s expression and body language – and at least, his theory about Adam’s father secretly caring for Adam and wants to reach out _but doesn’t know how to_ seem to ring true. He is unsure if Adam is aware of it, though.

Jordan carefully watches Adam’s reactions to his father’s questions, looking for the minutest signs of breakdown, until he is sure that there isn’t any. Adam is relaxed and composed. Jordan lets his eyes pander to his surroundings, instead. The polished silverware and hand-painted porcelain, fresh flowers on varnished dining tables, framed family portraits hanging on the walls. It’s as though he doesn’t fit in this part of Adam’s world; as if he’s an uncultured swine, small and awkward despite his towering figure over Adam.

“So, Mr Henderson,” Dr Lallana begins. Jordan turns his head towards the voice in surprise. “What do you do for a living now?” Adam’s father asks with an unreadable expression.

“I’m a labourer,” Jordan replies. Deadpan.

Dr Lallana narrows his eyes as he stares at Jordan, as if considering something. “And you have been staying with my son for how long? Will your employers not be looking for you?” he asks, almost with a sneer. Jordan grits his teeth. Somehow he knows this question would come up. From the corner of his eyes, he notices Adam staring at him worriedly.

“I have been staying with your son for a week and a half, sir. And I have completed my tasks at my previous construction site. The next employment would only start this coming Monday. Until then, I intend to stay with Adam and help him in any way I can.”

Jordan maintains a civil smile throughout his entire reply.

“And you are leaving tomorrow for Sunderland, I take it?” Dr Lallana inquires further. Being interrogated at the dinner table, Jordan feels as if he is being judged for a crime he didn’t commit. This is his personal court-martial.

“Yes,” Jordan nods, before he looks at Adam.

“I might follow him to Sunderland tomorrow,” Adam springs up unexpectedly— but he says this so nonchalantly as if he has thought about this for days, as if he has discussed it with Jordan. Although he might have said it only to spite his father, it’s still a surprising statement. “I might even take Arthur with me,” Adam adds. “Just for a couple of days, to go sightseeing. Being cooped up here, in that house— Arthur and I need a change of scenery.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs Lallana clasps her hands enthusiastically. “That sounds like a good plan!” she says, not realizing that Jordan’s face has turned pale at Adam’s idea.  

Jordan wants to ask, _‘But what about your group therapy session with the psychiatrist, Adam?_ ’ – but Adam looks at him sharply, as if to warn him to not say anything.

“Yes, Sunderland has changed a lot these days,” Jordan says, nodding along as if he’s agreed to this impromptu plan.

_What the fuck are you doing, Adam?_

 

* * *

 

Before the night ends, Mrs Lallana pulls Adam away for a private chat, leaving Jordan alone in the study, full of mahogany bookshelves lined with translated copies of major literary works and medical textbooks. He remembers the clink-clank of cutlery against china, the tremble of Mrs Lallana’s hands when she places her dainty cup of tea back on the saucer, the crispness of Dr Lallana’s starched collars, the embroidered napkins. He feels asphyxiated by the smell of roses and lilac picked by Mrs Lallana this morning, claustrophobic in the large halls of Adam’s family home. 

How could I possibly fit in all this— _grandeur,_ Jordan thinks warily. He looks at his rumpled shirt – his _best_ Sunday shirt, and feels daft in comparison. He feels dwarfed, completely out of Adam’s league. Cold beats of sweat begins to form on his forehead, an unnerving disquiet crawling under his skin. An annoying itch that he couldn’t scratch at, because he doesn’t know where it is.

And then Adam has said that he wants to follow Jordan to Sunderland, back to the wretched hellhole whence he comes from, the dilapidated flat with dirty blinds and damp walls with flaked paint, the smell of cigarette smoke and bitter coffee—

 _Adam would never fit there either,_ Jordan thinks. _He deserves better than that._

Jordan doesn’t hide his surprise when Dr Lallana enters, wishing to speak to him privately. He’s about to stand up before the older man stops him. “No, please. You don’t have to,” Dr Lallana says.

Jordan watches him guardedly.

“Jordan,” Dr Lallana begins steadily, before breaking into sobs and pulls him into a hug.

_What the fuck is going on?_

“Thank you so much for taking care of my son,” the older man says. Dr Lallana is crying – the stoic, seemingly cold-hearted patriarch of the family is breaking down in front of Jordan, and he couldn’t stop him. “I’ve heard so much about him; how he has been doing – and how you’ve been helping him— and I wish I could have met you earlier, Jordan.”

Jordan’s eyes widen, trying to straighten the older man’s posture – shaking him, doing anything to stop him from bowing. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Dr Lallana. I’m not sure if I can take the credit for Lieutenant Lallana’s recovery. It was out of his own volition,” Jordan says evenly, despite the panic bubbling within him.

“I’m not blind. I’m not deaf, Jordan. Adam has spoken about you – many times before, and I didn’t believe my wife when she said that you’re paying him a visit. But then I saw you in the flesh – at the market, with him and Arthur, and he looked so happy. I really wanted to run up to him and hug him and tell him that I’ve forgiven him – and that I wish he could forgive me too, but— I _couldn’t._ ”

“Why are you telling me all this and not him?” Jordan asks. “With all due respect, sir – please don’t tell me that you couldn’t – we’re in _your_ house. This is your ground, and we’re not in public. He is your son, and he deserves to know this from you. Not by a proxy like me.”

“Respect is where respect’s due. And he respects you. More than he respects me, at this moment in time.”

“And it will stay that way if you don’t tell him the truth,” Jordan insists. “’I’m just the Lieutenant’s Sergeant. You are his father. He did what he did because he was unwell, but he’s recovering. You were shocked— and I appreciate that it takes time for you to get over what happened. So now, it’s time to make amends, don’t you think?”

Dr Lallana falls silent— and it takes several seconds for either of them to move, to say anything. In the end, the older man purses his lips resolutely and nods at Jordan. “Alright, Jordan,” he squares his shoulders and exhales. “Whatever the consequence of tonight might be, I still want you to know that I am very, _very_ grateful to you— for bringing my son _home._ ”

With that, Adam’s father shakes his hand firmly, almost never wanting to let go – before finally leaving the room.

The door clicks shut.

 

* * *

 

Jordan waits for five full minutes before he leaves the study. He enters the dining room, where Adam and his father are deep in conversation. Mrs Lallana is sitting at the opposite corner of the room, watching intently but doesn’t dare interrupt the hushed exchange. Nobody realizes that Jordan is standing at the door, and he thinks it is best for him to quietly leave and wait somewhere he would be invisible to them, but not too far that he couldn’t come to Adam’s aid should he need it.

_I’m watching your six, sir._

A young maid passes by in front of Jordan and gives him a demure smile. Jordan purses his lips, but doesn’t really return her gaze.

 _I’m not interested,_ he tries to tell her. _I’m in love with someone else._

Jordan hopes she understands.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve gone silent,” Adam comments during the drive home.

Jordan swallows heavily. “Did you mean what you say? About going to Sunderland with me tomorrow?”

“Sorry to spring it up on you so suddenly,” Adam says. “I’ve been thinking about it for days. There’s really nothing keeping me here,” he sighs, looking wistfully out of the window. “And I really didn’t like the way Father was speaking to you earlier, and I just— spontaneously combusted.”

“At least you didn’t punch him in the face and knock him out,” Jordan says, which earns a wry chuckle from Adam. “But you’ve made amends now, haven’t you?”

“I’ve apologised,” Adam’s lips thinning into a grimace. “He has apologised, too. It will take some time before the relationship truly heals, but we’re getting somewhere.”

Jordan merely nods and focuses on the road ahead.

“I don’t think you should follow me to Sunderland tomorrow, sir,” Jordan says suddenly— the same time as Adam says, “Thank you, Hendo.”

The thrum of Jordan’s engine fills the silence that ensues.

Adam doesn’t even sound angry when he asks, “Why not?” – as if he has expected Jordan to deny him his wish.

“Come visit me,” Jordan begins, trying to construct his convoluted thoughts into coherent sentences. “Come visit me when you are well. I don’t want you to miss your group therapy. At least go for the first session, but don’t miss it because of me.”

“If I don’t get better— if I relapse,” Adam sighs, his fingers brushing invisible dust on his lap, “—if I can’t come and visit you then—,” he manages to say, before Jordan cuts him off.

“I’ll come back for you. I’ll come back _home_ to you,” Jordan promises.

 

* * *

 

At 0420 on that Sunday morning, Jordan makes the decision of his life.

He studies Adam’s sinewy limbs, the soft curves silhouetted by the moonlight pouring in from the window ledge. He remembers the warmth of Adam’s lips, how his skin burns with every caress. The sound of his blood roaring in his ears with every surge of desire that builds within him, whenever he’s together with Adam.

He slips out of bed, peering through the darkness in search of his clothes – lying haphazardly across the floor. He wears his trousers, buttons his shirt up—and he does this while trying not to peel his gaze off Adam’s lithe, naked form on the mattress, looking peaceful and content— as if he never had been haunted by grotesque nightmares. Adam mumbles a word – “Jordan,” he says, and for a moment Jordan thinks that Adam is awake, before he realizes that Adam is talking in his sleep.

Jordan tiptoes quietly out of the room. The effects of his nightly medicine will knock Adam off for another few hours, yet. In the living room, Studge is sprawled over the sofa, snoring softly. His head is turned towards Arthur’s crib, so that Arthur will be in his line of sight when he wakes up.

The baby is sleeping soundly— and something inside Jordan’s heart clenches as he stands by the crib, watching Arthur’s little hands and feet, the little pout that he makes when he sleeps, the little wriggle he does when he yawns.

Jordan kisses his thumb before tracing Arthur’s forehead with it— an indirect kiss, a weak proxy to his true intention. I will miss you, Jordan thinks, and all he wants to is to scoop Arthur up into his arms and give him a big, wet kiss – but he couldn’t, because he doesn’t want to wake Arthur up.

_I will miss you so much, buddy— and I hope your dad is going to get better soon._

He leaves two notes – one for Studge, telling him to look after Adam and Arthur while he’s away. The second is for Adam, which he places next to the bedside table where Adam’s alarm clock is.

Jordan leaves the house quietly, driving away in the darkness. Way before the sun even dares to show its face across the horizon of a damp Sunday sky, way before the neighbours will ever realize that his Vauxhall is no longer parked under the old ash tree.

He spends most of the journey wondering what it was that he had accomplished during his stay at Adam’s house, wondering what it was that he had expected when he first arrived at Adam’s doorstep. Every moment passed by in a blur, but never for one moment did he regret any of it. He wonders what the fuck has he been thinking, running away from the only thing that he’s ever been sure of wanting. What the fuck has he been thinking, chasing after the lieutenant like that, only to back down in cowardice?

And then he remembers where he’s going— and how different they are, the different lives they have lived. He thinks of their future, and Jordan’s heart sinks at the thought of Adam having to sacrifice a happier, brighter future for the sake of being with someone like him. Jordan isn’t particularly religious, but even he knows that it isn’t right – at least in the eyes of God, and he remembers Adam being disgusted at himself because he thinks he’s a Sodomite—

But Jordan has thought that it was alright, because it was Adam. This was his lieutenant, this was the man who has saved him time and time again when God thought it was right to put an entire world fighting against each other, when bombs and bullets fired over his head like rainfall, when he thought he has lost his soul, only to find it again in Adam.

“Society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and madness,” Adam has said to Studge. Jordan knows how much society looks down on Sodomites, but fuck them all. He doesn’t care what society thinks, not when he has sacrificed his body and soul during the war, so that society may yet survive.

Halfway during the drive from Bournemouth to Sunderland, Jordan begins to realize— with a fucked-up disillusioned interest, that tears are forming in his eyes, blurring his vision. He wipes at them angrily, tyres skidding on the damp road as he does so, but he regains control and continues to drive— before he starts to grit his teeth, trying to hold back the pressure in his throat, building up in his chest. Tears begin to blur his vision again, his breaths becoming ragged as he physically tries to still himself, trying to concentrate on the road. His fingers are damp on the steering wheel – from wiping his tears earlier, and the ache in his heart is unbearable.

He pulls up the car at the side of the road; the car behind him honking angrily but he doesn’t really care, he doesn’t really give a shit anymore as he slams his forehead on the steering wheel, covering his face as he begins to cry—

Begins to let everything off his chest, letting go of his devil-may-care, cool-and-detached persona. He swallows the hurt, the heaviness in his heart, the excruciating pain, as he tries not to think about the last words he had written to Adam—

_“Don’t think for a second I left you because I don’t love you. I left because I’m not good at goodbyes. This isn’t goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye. So I’m going to say that I love you, instead. I love you, and I’ll come home to you. I love you, Adam.”_

And yet Jordan is afraid that he might never have the courage to face Adam again.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a month since Jordan started working at the new construction site. His boss is a rowdy American— from California, he’s told Jordan, and that is pretty much the only thing he knows about the man. Most of the time Jordan only nods, and other times Jordan just does his work quietly.

After a long day like today, Jordan usually relaxes by drinking a bottle of cold beer, to throw off the sizzling heat of summer. He catches the silhouette of the young lady in the apartment opposite, before guiltily looking away. He has nothing to do these days but watch people go by, pretending to aim at them, imagining them as shooting targets, as morbid as it sounds.

Old habits die hard. He was a sniper, after all. It was what he was good at.

Now he has nothing. He doesn’t even own a gun.

He nearly jumps out of his own seat when he hears knocks at his door, thinking for a moment that someone is gunning his door down with bullets.

The face he sees when he opens the door isn’t one he expects.

“Hello, Sergeant Henderson.”

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

He invites Adam in, all formal and civilised, as if that one week at Adam’s house never happened. He opts for idle chat, such as—

“I’m glad you’re looking a lot better, sir. You look healthy.”

Adam doesn’t reply. It seems that he is contemplating whether he should say, “The same to you,” when Jordan clearly looks tragically worn-out. Instead, he says, “Thank you.”

It is obvious that Adam isn’t sure where this conversation is heading, either. Jordan notices the signs of irritation in Adam’s brows, though, when Jordan continues to be polite and unlike anything his final note suggests. “Where’s Arthur?” Jordan asks.

The sharp glare in Adam’s eyes is crystal clear when he replies, “He’s at my mom’s house.”

“I doubt he’ll remember me.”

“Oh, he remembers you. You’re the cool dad, remember?”

Jordan’s expression turns bitter at Adam’s words, reminding him of a life he once had.

“Why are you here, sir?”

“I came to ask if you’d like to work for my dad at his GP practice. Our clerk just left, and my dad is convinced that you would be a great candidate. Since you helped his son get back on his feet, and all that, you know?”

“Did you drive all the way here just to ask me to work for your father?”

Adam doesn’t reply, his eyes narrowing into slits. Jordan breaks away from the stare – he feels naked and fragile under Adam’s scrutiny.

 _“Fuck,_ Hendo,” Adam swears in frustration. “You _know_ why I’m here,” he says, closing his eyes tightly as if it’s painful to keep looking at Jordan.

Jordan takes a sharp, shuddering breath. And it hurts, because Jordan _does_ know.

And he _wants,_ but he can’t reach into the darkness. He _wants,_ but he fears. Living with just Adam and Arthur, in their own little bubble of comfort – he doesn’t mind living like that forever. But the risk of getting caught – and the uneasiness that clenches at his heart when he has to pretend that he is just the lieutenant’s _friend_ – or the lieutenant’s _Sergeant_ – it gnaws at him; the uncertainty, ripping his soul into a million pieces.

“I’m not— right for you,” Jordan exhales shakily. “You deserve better than this. Than me. You should get another wife and four more kids, instead of me,” he swallows heavily without actually looking at Adam. “I’m a wreck, Adam. I don’t fit in your world.”

Adam’s lips thinned into a grim line. Jordan doubles over in pain even before he could register the swift movement, when Adam punches him squarely in the face. “Please say something that makes sense,” Adam says, his words coming out cool and clipped, before his voice changes into an authoritative tone. “Stand up, Sergeant,” Adam’s fist tightening in Jordan’s collars, hauling him up from the floor. “I’ll have none of your bullshit, do you copy? Who the fuck are you to tell me that what I deserve?”

Jordan wipes the speck of blood from the cut on his bottom lip. He licks at it, the coppery tang familiar on his tongue. His eyes begin to water, a dull throb in his jaw.

“Is that an order, sir?”

“I’m not your commanding officer anymore, Jordan. It’s not an order.” Judging from Adam’s frustrated expression, Jordan knows that he wants to say something else, something more meaningful, but doesn’t dare to. “And I don’t want another wife.”

Jordan doesn’t have to ask what Adam wants. He merely gives Jordan a look – and Jordan _understands._

“In this lifetime you could have just stayed as my friend, colleague, comrade, enlisted man, whatever. In another lifetime we could have been brothers, and I swear my mom would have wanted to adopt you if she had the chance,” Adam presses on, before sighing. “Personally, I want you to be the cool dad for Arthur.”

Jordan could feel the familiar ache in his chest, rising up in his throat. He clenches his jaw to stop the tide from crashing, but the damage is done. Tears start to sting his eyes, and he tries to breathe faster to stop himself from choking on his sobs, but his efforts only make matters worse.

“But most importantly,” Adam kneels next to him, carding his fingers through Jordan’s hair gently, “—I want you to be mine,” he says. “As much as I want to be yours.”

Adam kisses Jordan’s temple, the corner of Jordan’s eyes; wiping his tears away with the pads of his thumbs. Jordan turns his head and leans into Adam’s touch, pressing his forehead against Adam’s. In Adam’s eyes, he sees a determination that he hasn’t seen in a long time— not since the war, as if the old lieutenant is back— the man he first shook hands with at camp, back when Jordan was just an unruly kid who thought that the war would be over within months.

In Adam’s eyes, Jordan finds his strength.

“I figure if you can’t come home to me, I’ll come home to you,” Adam says, before kissing him fully on the lips— hungry and possessive, tasting the saltiness of Jordan’s tears on his tongue. “Whatever it is that worries you, we’ll make it work. Just like what you did for me before. I’m not going anywhere, Jordan. I’m here. Don’t run away anymore. I _need_ you.”

“I love you, Adam,” Jordan says.

Adam kisses him lightly on the lips, before pulling away.

“I know,” he says.

 

* * *

 

_Bournemouth, 1960_

“You’re daydreaming again,” Adam says to Jordan, sounding half-cross half-amused. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, as his eyes quickly flicker to the children building a sandcastle just yards away from where they’re lying in indolence— to make sure that the boys are safe, before returning his attention to Jordan.

The waves crash upon the sands, soft winds caressing his cheeks.

Jordan brushes the sticky sand off his knees, watches the soft sway of Adam’s hair falling over his forehead. And he thinks about—

_The battlefield in Normandy, a solid arm around his waist, breathing in unison with the man next to him as he strains his eyes through the darkness, gaze steady through his rifle, a finger ready against the trigger. A voice in his ear – calling out his name, a command, an order, a word of encouragement. The sound of gunfire, the cries of people screaming inside a burning house, a mother holding the body of her dead child. The rain, the sweat pooling in his uniform, the smell of death and rotten corpses and pestilence. He thinks about dying, about the fact that he wouldn’t feel so alive if not for the man next to him, the man that he would so readily die for—_

_The sun, warm and yellow and radiant above their heads, white seagulls flying across the sky, blue and bright and cloudless—_

He thinks about Arthur and Albie.

He thinks about Adam.

“Nothing, sir,” Jordan chooses to answer.

Adam smiles, warm and radiant and bright.

“You’ve never been a good liar, Sergeant Henderson.”

 

* * *

 

 fin

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also posting this as Liverpool is losing to Wolves. Liverpool really started to lose after I started posting my fics. Coincidence? What did I say about being a flop?


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